It All Ends After This
by Missing Triforce
Summary: The final showdown between Sherlock & the mob.  Time is close to running out. Sequel to "God Save the Child." Warnings for SLASH & OCs. Please R&R!
1. Ch 1: Phelps

**Hello! As promised, here is a sequel to "God Save the Child." This one is going to be shorter, not a really mystery like it's predecessor, but more focused on Alice, Sherlock, & John. It also came out of the original idea for the last fic, which was *SPOILER ALERT* I wanted to write something in which Sherlock went into a coma. *END SPOILER ALERT***

**Disclaimer: Mostly everything belongs to the beautiful BBC & the ever lovely Sir ACD. Some characters (most especially Alice), however, are original and drink their tea with me.**

**Happy reading and please review!**

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><p>Chapter 1: Phelps<p>

It was one of those quiet moments to begin with.

Alice was drawing still life at the coffee table: this particular moment a cracked, dying leaf, blown across our daughter's path on the way home from the park. It was October and a nip was in the air, a small chill in the wind that had wisped Alice's blonde hair about under the knitted pink hat. She had smiled and laughed when she'd found it, delighted with her new toy trembling in her hands.

I smiled at the memory.

John was reading the paper on the couch and drinking tea. His forehead creased slightly every once and a while as he read, his puddy skin folding. Trying to find harmless cases for me, I suspect. He was looking in the news section, but his eyes were focused not on the article about the USA needing to get their act together on environmental policy, but the smaller article under DI Dimmock's picture (he had taken my word as Gospel after all: of course he'd be a success and in the paper). He had a blanket pooled at his waist and covering his toes. His fluffed hair was sticking up. He looked altogether too cozy and in need of a good shag...or cuddle since Alice was here.

A cup of tea was steaming for me too, but the Strad was calling my name stronger. I wrung Vivaldi from the strings, gently biting down my lip in concentration at the fast notes like the leaves Alice had seen come down from trees in wind. Faster and faster. I felt my body sway back and forth with the time. Trying to force my thoughts into ardent motion.

What was the next step? Who should come next in the chain-the scarlet chain John liked to call it-the next person in the mob's beeline. Who? Who? Who? We were so close now. What were our leads-

A middle-aged, plump man outside on the street caught my eye. Anxious, kept hoping from foot to foot in front of the sandwich shop and peering up at our windows. Ah: a client.

I cut off the music abruptly. John looked up from his paper. Alice looked up from her drawing and came to the window. "We have a client, John. And it seems he works for Mycroft."

Alice leaned against me and I put a hand on her head. She had grown taller in the two years that had passed, but was still a bit small. Nine was a nice age. Though I suppose I would like her at any age. "Daddy, is he going to give you and Papa a case?"

"Yes, _mon amie_."

"He's awful nervous about it."

"He probably wants to keep whatever he's up to secret from your uncle," said John, stretching his back and getting off the couch. "Mycroft usually personally drops by when he wants us to do something for him."

I smiled. "Very good, John."

Alice was frowning at the man, who had finally gotten up enough courage to knock on our door. "Daddy, be careful."

"Hmmmm?" I was busy analyzing him. Alice went away to sit back at the coffee table, but didn't draw. She just waited impatiently for the door to open.

John went to get the door and few minutes later our client was in and I was sitting in my chair, already thinking.

The man was shaking quite a lot, his face pointed and pale with even paler blonde mustache and hair. It was thinning at the top despite his use of hair serum: the stench of it unquestionable. Nervous personality comes out when stressed but hidden usually: bit of a coward but an expert at faking confidence if he's in government. Tiny wounds on his fingers, slightly swollen: diabetic. Wearing a nice but not-so-expensive suit and an vote Labor Party pin so far so obvious: governmental official with a hint of frugality. A case, bulging with folders and papers. In government but not out in public much or elected: who'd wear such an audacious, cheap pin outside otherwise? It was calling for the attention he didn't receive elsewhere.

"Mr. Holmes, you must help me," he trembled. Ah: hint of non-English accent yet said trippingly on the tongue so work in the foreign office. Mycroft's little pet. Done something to displease big brother have we? Lost some important file most like. Or...no. See how his eyes were darting around the room, at the doorways, at the windows, and his hand clutched so tightly on his bag. _About to be_ _stolen_.

"How can I be of service?" I asked politely. It was inconvenient to have a nervous client at the beginning: they wouldn't tell as much as coherently. His eyes flicked about nervously from Alice to John and back to me. "Ah. This is Dr. John Watson, my colleague and partner. This is Alice Devonfort."

"Your daughter?" He fidgeted. Alice cocked her head at him. Her eyes were all analysis, taking in all of him, everything she could see. I inwardly smirked: good girl. Outwardly, however, I did not move or even change facial expression. This information was irrelevant to this man.

"She is just visiting. She's the granddaughter of a friend of Mrs. Hudson, our landlady. A nine year old is mostly harmless, don't you think? But please state the facts of your case so we shall see how Dr. Watson and I can be of service. Do sit down." I tilted my head towards the couch.

As he flinched his way into a sitting position, I made brief eye contact with John who had been leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. There was a crinkle between his eyes. Worried. But he was making the tea anyway.

"I work in the Foriegn Office, you see. Just a secretary, I'm afraid. My name is Phelps: Percy Phelps, you see. And I was just contacted-" the man turned a violent shade of green. Watson had better hurry with that tea. "May I use your washroom, Mr. Holmes?"

Ugh. "Alice, please show Mr. Phelps to the washroom."

"Thank you, thank you," he spluttered before racing after the girl and slamming the door behind him.

"What was that all about?" John asked as he entered the room with another cup of heaven. "Where'd he go?"

I put my hand over my face in exasperation. "One of Mycroft's playthings is about to lose some important document and is all of a flutter about it." Even from underneath my hand, I could see John brighten: was he really that worried about the mob cases? Even after almost three years?

"I'm sure it'll be fine: don't pout, Sherlock."

"I'm not pouting. I simply wish this Percy Phelps was made of stronger stuff."

I could tell John rolled his eyes. He set the cup down on the coffee table, gently setting aside Alice's drawing and leaf. Then he was standing in front of me and pulling away my arm. The next thing I knew was the soft kiss on my lips tasting vaguely of mint. Mmmm...this could be very nice. John began to draw away but I followed him up, trying to let it last, the smoothness, the slightest zest, and encompassing warmth. John put his hands on the side of my face and forced the lips to unlock, but swiped a thumb against my cheek. "Not while Mr. Phelps is here. And Alice. Tell me your deductions instead. I know you have them."

Not as good, but I rattled them off anyway. Just as I was finishing Alice and Phelps returned and John was again on the other side of the room, leaning against the doorframe slightly and a pleasant smile on his face.

Phelps was no longer green, but still a rather pasty white and Alice's frown had deepened on her face. She sat on the floor beside my chair, resting her head against the armrest. "Now, Mr. Phelps, if you would be so kind."

"They're after me!" he burst out and started waving his arms hysterically, all eyes on him widened. "Some criminals! I'm got an important secret military treaty for NATO, you see. And I was encrypting it and printing it on the computer when everything crashed and the computer gave a warning from them. I'm to meet them at some warehouse-a warehouse!-and give a copy of it unless they'll kill me. And the next day I found this on my desk so they could prove they can. Nobody has been able to trace it or catch them. You've got to help me, Mr. Holmes. I can't go to my bosses or they'll fire me or kill me or something awful!"

"You have back-ups of the treaty I suppose?"

"Oh yes, but any copy of it will fetch a pretty penny if you find the right buyer. That's probably why they want the smelly thing for." He sniffled. "God be damned...I don't want to give away NATO's secrets! I looked to you because you seem to have discretion as opposed to the police who have a media field day with everything. And..." Phelps paused, licked his lips, and looked down at his lap before continuing. "I fear for my job, Mr. Holmes, if this sort of scandal and dealing is ever found out."

"I understand. And what did they leave on your desk?"

Phelps threw down a bit of paper with a drawing of snake on it in vibrant red ink.

"They gave you a doodle?" John asked incredulously, looking down at the paper on the table.

Phelps nodded. "I hate snakes. Everyone at the office knows it and would never play this sort of trick on me."

"Could be a sign from the mob boss him or herself," I commented. "Anyone marked with it is supposed to be killed very soon."

John frowned at it. "If they can hack into a computer to give you a message and sneak into your office to give you a red snake of all things, why didn't they just take the treaty already? Why deal face to face?"

"Who knows with these people?" said Phelps. "But you must help me! I don't want to die! Or lose my livelihood!"

This was truly suspicious unless... I would have to ask Mycroft about this man later. "When are you supposed to meet these people with the treaty in hand?"

"Tonight at midnight," he wailed.

This was almost insulting. "Then I suggest you keep your appointment."

"What?" He seemed aghast.

John mirrored his expression. "Sherlock, he can't-"

"Yes he can," I interrupted. "John and I will be there to help you. We will catch these people who are hounding you, Mr. Phelps. Please write down the address of the warehouse on this scratchpad, prepare a fake copy of the treaty, arrive at the rendezvous approximately fifteen minutes beforehand, and you needn't worry about a thing for the rest of the day."

"Sherlock, are you seriously-" John started.

"Yes, I am, John. Alice, what are you doing?"

Our daughter had stood and walked up and over the coffee table to stand in front of Phelps. Her eyes were wide, examining. She reached her hands out to either side of his head and Phelps flinched back. "What are you doing, little girl? Get away."

But Alice just clasped her hands to the sides of his head firmly, almost boxing his ears. She stared hard and wide into his eyes and his alarmed brown ones stared back at her, frightened, but allowing the touch. She smoothed out the wrinkles from his face with her fingers as if trying to figure out the boy he was. "You needn't be afraid," she told him. "You bring all your fears upon yourself." She suddenly released him, grabbed her sketch things, and ran upstairs.

Phelps looked a little stunned. I did not know the reasoning behind Alice's actions and remained quiet, trying to figure it out. John coughed into the silence. "Sorry, she, um, does that occasionally. Her mother is still teaching her about personal space."

Which one of us was her mother? I shook my head and ran a hand through my hair. _ You bring all your fears upon yourself_. Had she...? She hadn't been gentle at all with him, not like she had with Mina before.

"I'll go see if she's alright," John said as he escaped up the stairs. I stood and made a motion to show Phelps out.

"You mustn't worry about tonight, Mr. Phelps," I assured him, guiding the bumbling man down the stairs to the front door. "Alice is going back to her house and Dr. Watson and I will be there to look after you." I opened the door for him and he bustled outside.

"Yes, yes, if you're sure."

"Quite certain."

"Until tonight then."

I just nodded in response and watched him waddle down the street. My eyes wandered as he disappeared around the corner and settled on a big fat crow sitting on a lampost across the street. It cawed once as the wind blew.

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><p><strong>Review please!<strong>


	2. Ch 2: Harbinger

**Second Chaptah! =D Thanks to everyone for the already stupendous support!**

**This chapter could alternatively be titled "Domestics" because a huge chunk is just family fluff. But I like it so I kept it. =D**

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><p>Chapter 2: Harbinger<p>

Liar.

The word kept repeating itself in my head, humming in the background as I went back upstairs to see John sitting on her bed holding a petulant Alice, who was trying to bury her face away into his neck.

"What was all that about, _mon amie_?" I asked.

She shook her head into John. "I don't like him. He hurts." I saw her grip on John tighten.

John looked at me, confused and worry creasing around his eyes. "He hurts himself or others, sweetheart?"

"Both."

Abruptly, Alice slid off him, went to her drawing, picked up her leaf and sketch things again, and left. John went a little pale.

"She is, of course, referring to that fact that this entire thing is a trap, and Mycroft needs a new Foreign Office secretary."

John turned his surprised eyes to me. "I thought it was a little fishy what with them wanting to see him instead of hacking the plan away," John conceded. "But he seemed so nervous. And who'd lay such a clumsy trap as that?"

"The mob," I answered simply. "Phelps is in on it. Unlike Moriarty, they are not meticulous about their details. They just want me to get there and via brute force they'll kidnap us away from the police." My face twisted in disgust. "Unartistic amateurs."

"We're not seriously going to _just walk into a trap set by the mob?_" said John, the incredulity brimming into his voice. "Sherlock, we can't be that careless. I know they are 'unartistic amateurs' at planning crimes, but if the bodies strewn all over London are any indiction, the mob is very good at _killing people with their unartistic, brute force_."

He would need some convincing. I sighed and took a step closer into his space. "Don't be ridiculous, John. This isn't going to be like The Pool. I'll have you with me." I leaned forward and kissed his forehead. "We'll call Lestrade and he'll get us out of there in no time."

John leaned away and crossed his arms. "And what if they're smarter than you think?"

"John, we are _so close_ to dismantling the entire British mafia. They're desperate now: they know we are on their trail and closing in. Actions are rushed, stupid. Resources limited. This is the chance we need to catch the big members. The Bosses. They'll probably be there or we will be taken safely to them: anyone would want a proper chat with the people who have annoyed them for so long."

John's eyes seemed to catch fire as I said that, the blood coming into his cheeks. His fists clenched. Uh-oh. "_The last time_," he gritted out through his teeth. "you said that you ended up dead for three years. That _cannot_ happen again, Sherlock."

I stared at him, suddenly seeing the parallel. I swallowed. "I would never do that again, John. No matter what Mycroft says. You know as well as I do that I couldn't survive without you for that long again."

John sighed and visibly relaxed a little. "But you are right: this is probably the quickest way to snatch more members and find the boss's location. Less people will be killed if we catch them now."

He was still tense though, his eyes wary. I closed the small distance between us and traced a finger lightly against the rim of his ear, down to his jaw and cheek. My Watson. I found his eyes. "We'll be alright, John."

In answer, John leaned up from the bed and kissed me. My mind went blank with sweetness and honey and mint again. Suddenly, a fire started low in the belly, a spark at the end of my spine. _Want._ John must have felt a similar sensation because his kiss grew greedy with a tinge of desperation. My hands were suddenly rifling through his hair (it was long again and lovely) and down his back to finger his spine through his shirt. John knotted his warm hand through my curls and his other hand on my cool neck to urge me down to his height.

My lungs were constricting, the need for oxygen not given to me from John's mouth burning my throat. I broke away reluctantly, panting and eyes closed. John leaned his forehead against mine and seemed equally winded. "Wh-When do we have to," he exhaled, his breath skirting across my face and neck to make goosebumps. "go?" God, to have his shirt off right now...Calm down, Sherlock.

"We should go at the appointed time. We want to be taken to the bosses and it will ensure Lestrade will be there to back us up. He has a case at the present moment."

"Alice will spend the night alone again," he replied. He clicked his tongue. "I wish we didn't have to leave her so often."

"It'll end soon," I reassured. John shivered before releasing me.

"Speaking of our daughter," John said. "She's probably still upset and it's nearly dinnertime."

"I'll look after her and you cook dinner?" I said hopefully. Cooking was dull and Alice was interesting. The way she had suspected Phelps today almost immediately: very impressive for a nine year old. Perhaps I should teach her how to deduce things properly as practice for that deduction textbook I'll eventually write...

I wandered in the direction of our room (Alice's most likely hiding place at any given moment) as these thoughts scampered about, and John went to the kitchen. We'd most likely be having Italian for dinner: John was on a streak and none of us were going to get a tumor anytime soon with the amount of tomatoes we'd eaten.

I found Alice sitting on the side of the bed and holding her leaf. Her hair was much longer now, a three inches past her shoulders, so it fell down into her face almost like a curtain. "Alice," I said. "What are you thinking?"

She looked up and I could tell something was brewing inside her mind: her body was rigid and the movement had almost been robotic. Her eyes were a choppy blue. "Daddy, will you take care of Papa?"

"I always take care of Papa," I replied, crouching down in front of her. "What's worrying you, _mon amie_?"

"The leaf is dying."

"Technically the leaf was dead the moment it fell from the tree, _mon amie_. See all this brown? Leaves on trees are green, remember. The plant cells inside the leaves produce the green pigment in what's called chlorophyll-"

"That's the stuff that makes, makes it photo-photo synthis photosynthesize," she said proudly. "Eat the sun."

"Exactly!" I said. "When the tree wants to conserve water and there is not enough sunlight to photosynthesize efficiently, it slowly shuts down the chlorophyll and the green pigment dies first. The leaf will continue to photosynthesize with other pigments present-all those colors you see in the autumn-but when its fallen off the tree its dead completely."

"But then I find it and draw it to make it alive again," Alice said.

I was startled. "Has Papa been reading you _The Tempest_? Or any sort of Shakespeare?"

Alice nodded excitedly. "Yes! Daddy reads me biology and Papa reads me sonnets and plays! But, but, but next he promised to read me _The Hobbit_."

"_The Hobbit_? Why do you want to read that?"

Alice rolled her eyes as if it was obvious. "It's a good book! My teacher likes it. Bilbo is Papa and Daddy is Smaug!"

"Why am I a dragon and your father a small furry thing that likes to eat?"

"'Cause you can sound like a dragon and are very big! And Papa is kind of small...and good at food. But goes on lots of adventures with you!"

"I see." Unsure how I much I wanted to be a dragon and the story's main antagonist, I straightened up and ruffled her hair. Leaf carefully placed on the bed, she looked eagerly at me and used the bed to bounce into my arms.

"Will Daddy please teach me to play what he was playing before? It sounded beautiful."

I patted her back. "It might be a bit difficult for you right now, _mon amie_."

"Just the first bit," she pleaded. "The first line even. I promise to help you extra as science assistant later and maybe hold the acid for you when Papa is not looking."

I chuckled. Quite the little negotiator. And to see John's face if he saw us at the last bit... "Alright, you've convinced me," I replied. "Go get your violin ready while I go get the music." I must have an actual sheet of it somewhere. Alice squealed with delight, kissed my neck, wiggled down my frame, and ran out of the room. I went after her, laughing.

We spent the rest of the day like that. John cooked some simple spaghetti and meatballs with garlic bread (a sign he was too distracted for anything elaborate) while I taught Alice (she managed, but we had to slow down the rhythm considerably). We ate, John and Alice played chess (she lost after John snatched her queen, but she didn't mind), I did the dishes because John cooked. It was all very domestic yet peaceful, slow, calm. Comfortable almost. I flicked through my emails and updated my website, not really paying attention. Just checking the time. I had texted Lestrade and he had agreed to the meeting.

"Good night, Daddy," a voice said. I turned from my computer to see a sleepy Alice. She was rubbing her eyes to stay awake, but a yawn escaped her. John stood beside her, ready to tuck her in. "Are you coming to bed soon?"

"Not tonight, _mon amie_, but sweet dreams to you."

"Papa, you make him sleep sometime?" She turned her drooping gaze to John.

He chuckled. "Yes, Alice. I'll make sure he sleeps sometime. Let's get you upstairs." With a nod, she trailed up the steps, a hand in John's larger one.

In forty-five minutes, John was back down no doubt after reading a chapter of _The Hobbit_ and being asked when he was coming to bed multiple times. Alice was a bit clingy. "Done with child duty?" I asked, not looking from my computer.

"Yes, she's fine. I told her you and I had to go out, but not that it was connected to Phelps." He sighed. "She seemed really worried."

"She's nine, John: the plight of Winnie the Pooh characters also worries her."

"But, you know, she gets these feelings about people. Like Phelps today, or Mina from before." He ran a hand through his hair. "She's got a powerful intuition about others."

I finally properly looked at him. Worry: creased forehead, swipe of the tongue across the lips, weight shifted to the right, uncertainty written in the eyes. Like father, like daughter. "John, we are not backing out now. So go watch crap telly for the next two hours until we have to leave." I didn't have the patience of saint and this doubt was getting irritating. We'd be the custody of the mob for fifteen minutes at most and then Lestrade would come get us. And those fifteen minutes would be spent talking and intimidating one another.

"Fine," he snapped back. "Be an idiot."

The next two hours passed in tense silence. I could feel John's stomach clenching in nerves from across the room. Gah. Finally, it was 23:15. I slammed down the laptop and got up to get my coat. John turned off the infernal television and followed me to the coat hooks. We didn't speak. I silently put my phone in the pocket of my pants. Lestrade would follow its GPS tracking in case we were taken elsewhere. The mobsters patting us down would probably think it was part of me, especially when they found the trouser pocket empty.

We were almost to the front door when a small voice floated down to us. "Don't..."

I turned to see Alice at the top of the stairs: a very, very frightened and strange Alice. She was deathly white, the black-blue of her nightgown paling her further, and her gold eyes were wide and looking right at us, right through us. Seeing and unseeing. Her sandy hair was tousled in disarray, sticking out and reaching the air around her that seemed to crackle in amazement. The teddy bear John had got her when she first came her was held limply in her hand, its small black eyes somehow accusatory.

What on earth? "Papa mustn't go," she whispered, barely there lips sanding together as she spoke and reached forward towards him. "He might not come back."

The hair on the back of my neck bristled. Alice began to cry silently, big tears welling up and spilling down her face. "Papa, please don't go. It will hurt. Phelps will hurt."

You can't know that, _mon amie_," I said gently. The statistics of John surviving were pretty high tonight.

"I can," she said softly, no new emotion passing on her face. "I do." Then whatever was gripping her stopped. Her head snapped back, and she ran down the stairs into John's arms.

"Alice. Alice, hush now." I heard him tutting. "Papa has Sherlock. Sherlock will look after him." He was swaying her side to side and she was clinging to him desperately, and his jacket sleeve was soaked.

"John, we have to go," I said a bit impatiently. Theatrics. Alice was a good girl, but really. This was a little much.

"Sherlock, shut it," he retorted, his eyes hard, and he carried her back upstairs. "Wait five minutes."

It was actually ten before he came back down. "She's asleep again: wouldn't let go of me until she was. Let's go get this done with."

I nodded: finally someone agreed with me. We exited and flagged down the nearest cab to the warehouse.

I wish I had listened to her.

The taxi dropped us off around the corner from the meeting place. As we rounded that corner, I saw Phelps fidgeting near the entrance. I was about to greet him when suddenly pain exploded in the back of my head and the world was all firey stars and blackness.

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><p><strong>Yeah, a bit more about Alice in this story. =D Please review, as always! What are you thinking?<strong>


	3. Ch 3: Poison

**Chapter 3, lovelies! Many thanks to MysticValkyrie (actual criticism FTW!), NicolieTheFace (LOL), & Mrs. VanchaMarch (you're beautiful & thank you!) for reviewing! **

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><p>Chapter 3: Poison<p>

Ugh. My head hurt.

Where am I? The room was warm, the kind of warmth only given from a fireplace. And indeed, there was a crackling of wood to my left. My coat, scarf, and jacket were no longer (I'd find them later), but mercifully my shirt and trousers were intact. I could feel the weight of my phone against my hip. Lestrade would still find us. I was in a stiff chair: it smelled of cherrywood. Rough ropes bound me to it and my neck was painfully arched backwards. One, two, three, four other breaths in the room excluding my own. That weak one must be John. I wriggled my toes, shifted my legs and flexed my fingers slowly: no damages. I twisted my wrists against the cords binding them, already feeling a burn against the thin skin. My mouth tasted like sleep. I licked my lips and raised my head.

"Good evening, Mr. Holmes." Female, accent American Southern, trying to be seductive but failing: her voice was a bit too rough for silk. Age range 40-50. Opening my eyes confirmed my suspicions. Ginger, shoulder length straight hair, turquoise earrings and pendent, violently green eyes, tan skin. Wearing dark gray pant suit.

"My, you are a looker," she remarked. I was in a study of some sort, facing a huge cherrywood desk that took up most of the floorspace. Books in walled bookcases enclosed it and a fire roared to my left. Two exits on each side, both blocked by muscled thugs in bulky bullet-proof vests. Besides the fire and the blue glow of her Mac computer on the desk, the room was swamped in darkness. Her desk was littered with the usual things: pen holders, pencils, papers, photos, letters with her name on them, but most interesting was a little vial full of red liquid.

John was to my right and still out, his head slumped forward. Vallierie Moss according to her desk papers-the American leader of the British mob-was leaning against her desk and looking at me curiously.

"Pity you're gay as a jaybird," she continued. "I would have liked you."

I snorted. "As if."

Her perfectly manicured eyebrow raised a bit. "Is that a challenge, Mr. Holmes? I'm sure something could be arranged."

I glared fire at her. It was a waiting game. Just distract her until Lestrade arrives.

She minced over to me. "You've gotten in my way far too much, Mr. Holmes." She put a single finger-a finger painted the same color as the liquid in the vial on her desk-and tipped my face up to her. "And I wouldn't want you to be in shock before you've witness what you've earned from it."

"What? A short drop and a sudden stop for you?"

She slapped me and walked back to her desk to take the vial: it was not viscous enough to be nail polish, but what was it then? She shook it at me. "I'm not going to die by hanging, Mr. Holmes. You're smarter than that. In fact, you're smarter than any of this." She gestured at the whole room and thus the situation. "Yet you walk right into my trap like it's nobody's business. So even if the police are somehow on their way here this very second, you're still going to suffer. Far more than I will in any prison."

"So this was a suicide mission to begin with?"

Her eyes glittered at him for a moment in the darkness. "Yes, Sherlock: can I call you Sherlock? The rest of my team is in the other room, thinking it's a party, and the police can have their fun capturing them. I started as nothing in this country, but I have risen and I shall fall. In part, thanks to you.

"When you killed off that _awful_ man Moriarty and went chasing after his agents, our organization grew. It blossomed to fill that delicious power vacuum you created. I got strong, I got plenty rich, I got tired of crime. I want to retire away from all the other mobsters who simply won't know what to do without me. I'll start a new adventure and they'll be stuck in their little doldrums of routine or dead: I don't really care."

"You're going to prison and the death sentence same as them."

She sat on her desk again and starting checking her nails. Her eyes slid to me. "Nobody likes to kill a woman, Sherlock."

She obviously hadn't met my brother. But another distraction point: "Are you telling me that you started an organized crime establishment because you could and thought it was fun?" People are strange.

She put down the vial and gripped the edges of the desk with her hands and leaned towards me, letting the words drip from her lipsticked mouth. "Why else does a woman do anything when she's got no children to care for?"

This was interesting, perhaps I could use it to buy time. I began to surreptitiously wiggle my hands to try to get out of the bonds. "Did you want children back in the States?"

"I dunno. You tell me, Sherlock." She leaned back and waited, smirk already in place.

"You're from the Southern region of the United States. Family is important to you and you miss them. They think you're a businesswoman: your front for your mob business as well. Selling hygiene and hair products and the like. You're intelligent-I give you that-but I've seen better. No rings on your finger: not even a lightened tan of where one once was. No one would marry you and so no children. Yet you are around 45, no? And those old-fashioned values of family so important in the South. Tut, tut, tut. Those values tell you how people work, what's most important to them, and let you do your job oh so extremely well yet you can never be the proper Southern belle without a husband or offspring."

Moss did not move or change expression. "Correct," she said, letting her lips caress the word. "I can tell the ins and outs of people easily, have the most money out of anybody in my family, but no one to pass it on to. An evolutionary dud. Never had time for a husband." Her eyes flicked to John. "Yet you do. And a little girl, by what I hear."

I forced the blood to stay in my face. The rope had loosened a bit around my wrists, but had a ways to go. "I don't know what you are talking about." She would never get to Alice. Never.

"Phelps told me a girl was there," she said. "Would anyone in their right mind let you babysit their kid? Ha!" She scoffed. "Nope: that little lady is something special besides your landlady's friend's granddaughter. Got your eyes and face and your partner's hair. You're a proper family now." She nodded her head approvingly. "I hope you enjoyed it while it lasted." She fingered the vial again and licked her lips slowly.

A cough interrupted us. John was awake. "John, the mob boss is Vallierie Moss."

"Glad you could join us, Dr. Watson. We can get on with the show now," drawled Vallierie rolling her shadowed eyes to him and walking over. "You cutie-pie. You're just sweet as a button, aren't you?"

"And you're quite a disgusting murderess," he retorted. Good boy. "Sherlock, where the hell are we?"

"Oh! He's a sassy boy! Lovely!" She was getting closer and closer to him until her hands were forcing his thighs down and her mouth was an inch from his face. "Care to marry me, Dr. Watson? We could dump your Sherlock into the river on the way to the chapel."

"Get off me," he replied. "Before I connect my knee cap to your chin and shatter your jaw."

I smirked. She sucked back away and went around to the other side of desk to pull something out of one of the drawers. It glinted in the half-light, something small. What was it? Something...a needle.

That vial was full of poison. Probably painful and medium speed acting. We were running out of time rather quickly. Where was Lestrade? He should be here by now.

"Now, my cupcakes, let's play proper. Guards, if you kindly."

The two guards came over and lifted John's chair and mine to face each other. He was glaring at everyone and obviously struggling against his bonds. My hands were almost free from the rope, in case he didn't get here in time. But surely he would. With us being knocked out and Vallierie Moss's little chat surely enough time had passed. I didn't protest as they moved my chair. Vallierie Moss wanted dramatic effect to have us facing this way, obviously meaning to have us both injected with poison and watch each other die. Dull. Boring.

"Now," she stood between us and sucked in some of the red liquid from the vial into her needle. She tapped it with an elegant finger. "I suppose you boys have an agreement on who's going to die first? All couples do whether consciously or unconsciously. They know which will actually survive the other." Her eyes flicked between us. If looks could kill, she'd be dead twice over. What was she playing at? She wanted to kill both of us.

"I'm guessing John is the one who is supposed to survive? Sherlock already 'died' and not a single suicidal peep from Dr. Watson. But what if we switched it? Dr. Watson's turn to fall unto Death."

This lady was crazy. This was not allowed. My hands were almost loose. I could feel my face heat up and anger and adrenaline rip new avenues through my blood stream. "Don't you dare," I spat.

"Showing your hand, Sherlock?" she giggled. "Am I not supposed to touch what's yours?" She snapped her fingers and triple the guards entered the room. No. Nonononono. Think, Sherlock! Distract her. Hands pushed me down into my chair and I saw the same happen with John. One guard took his leg and splayed it away from the other and the same happened on the other side. John lashed out, kicked one in the face even, but the grip remained.

Vallierie lowered her slimy self onto John's lap. "Well, Dr. Watson," she purred. "This is cozy."

"Shut the fuck up," he said and tried to headbutt her. He missed and in an instant another guard was pinning his head to his chest.

"Tut, tut, love, that's no way to treat a lady."

"If you don't leave John alone, I'll scream," I said quickly. "That ought to bring one of your party running and then we can have a little chat about you bringing the police here."

Moss stilled for a second. I could see John breathing hard, his chest pumping up and down with the high of adrenaline. The mob boss turned to me. I had her there.

But then she grinned wickedly, exposing as much of her inhumanely white teeth as possible and her eyes glinting like green knives. "I've always been a screamer and you're my entertainment for the night."

I felt myself pale. Shit: "Leave John alone. He's no help to you. All this mob business was my idea and-," I began.

But then she kissed him. Right on the lips. John tried to squirm away, but she held him fast. His face turned scarlet with embarrassment and she ran her hands up under his shirt to scratch across his stomach muscles. John tried to thrash her off, but she clung to him and the guards held him fast. "Have you forgotten what it's like to be with a woman, Dr. Watson?" she said, her eyes lidded and her voice husky. She stuck herself to his mouth again.

And then I saw it. While distracted, she slipped the needle into the fabric of his elbow, easily finding a vein and plunging _all_ the crimson contents into his bloodstream.

No.

"GET OFF HIM!" I screamed. This wasn't supposed to happen. Lestrade was supposed to be here. _Goddamnit, where was he? John, how was John? What poison had she just injected into John? She was supposed to kill me if anyone._

Apparently it didn't also act as an aphrodisiac because John still struggled. "If you get off him you can have me! You said I was the looker!" I needed her to move, I needed her to get out of the way so I could examine his symptoms. What was happening to him?

Vallierie finally stopped violating John's mouth enough to whisper. "Rattlesnake. They used to call me that, you know." It was snake venom then; probably enhanced to be faster acting in addition to the large dose. She got off John, lobbed the needle past me into the fireplace, dusted herself off, and took out a hand mirror to fix her make-up.

"Now, Sherlock dear, I don't want to touch you because I know you won't enjoy it, but, this being my last night before a bit of prison and all,_ I _might as well enjoy it and you insisted. And John can watch as long as he's able."

She was coming towards me and sat down on my lap but I didn't care. John was whimpering, the area around where the needle had been was swelling: pain and burning. He was trying to look at me, but his eyes had trouble focusing: blurred vision and dizziness. Beads of sweat were starting to form on his brow and his limbs were weakening against the guards hold: not in an act of surrender, John would never give up, but muscle weakness. Someone's red-head was in the way now, I turned about so I could see over it. Inconsequential muttering about neck ensued. "John, tell me what's wrong!"

Three minutes passed and the arm's swelling crept up towards John's shoulder, his whole limb becoming puffier and puffier. "Sherlock," he said softly. "The room is all tilty and God, I feel sick. It's so hot and sh-sh-shaky." His body convulsed. "God! Sherlock, I love you. I'm so sorry."

"Don't say things like that!" I snapped. "Keep fighting, John!" The Something was wiggling about on my lap and making moaning noises as it bumped me. All that mattered was my hands were getting loose. Almost free and then John and I were out of here and I would give him a large dose of antivenin and we'd be home by dawn and make Alice's breakfast and everything would be over.

Almost there with the hands, almost _fucking_ there. John was pale, his eyes closed. The guards released him and he sagged. Aha!

My hands burst from the bonds and quick as a wink I stood, dropping the woman on the floor in a sexual heap. I swung about to hit the men around me, distracting them. The guards converged as I twisted out of the other ropes. I threw the chair at one and leapt to the desk and grabbed a letter-opener to stab into another guard's eye. He reeled away in pain as I took the weapon out and sliced another guard's ear off. Duck. Dodge. Punch to another. Kick that one. _Let them all burn._ A gun shot sounded. And another and another. Lestrade. Finally.

The guards fell down like targets in a shooting range. They deserved to die. I kicked the puddle of a woman on the floor and ran over to John, untying him as fast as I could. Insignificant mortals invaded the room, got in the way. I picked up John and barreled through towards the door. Lestrade tried to stop me. "Vallierie Moss is in charge of the mob. The rest of her gang is in the next room. She's on the floor and in need of a hobby _in hell_."

Outside. Ambulance. The ringing lights never were so welcome. Everything else was damned to the depths.

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><p><strong>Whew! That was close. =D What do you think?<strong>

**Random tidbit: Vallierie is molded after Batman's Poison Ivy & The Warden from Louis Sachar's "Holes." Also, my Americans keep coming from the South. I am not from the South. I'm sorry if I've insulted anybody. Or implied that the British couldn't have a mob run by their own countryman/woman. I just felt having an American would be more interesting. The British are definitely awesome enough to have a mob leader. Anyway, LOVE YOU ALL AND HAVE A HAPPY DAY.**


	4. Ch 4: Disappearing

**Hello poppets! A mighty big thank you to all my reviewers! Whoo! NicolieTheFace, I'm sorry about your day. Will this make it better? You are eternally epic. sneakysnakes, your name is cool and thank you for the grammar! I'll fix it very soon. Goosebumps is an interesting reaction to John & Sherlock's parenting...hmmmm *ponder, ponder* Mrs. VanchaMarch, you are lovely as ever and there is never a wrong time to quote Sherlock because Sherlock is always made of win and makes me grin like an idiot. Glad you like Ms. Moss! Scribblez, thank you!**

**This is the (short) second to last chapter!**

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><p>Chapter 4: Disappearing<p>

Alice started crying the minute I walked through the door and John did not follow me in. She had been waiting on the stairs with a blanket and her teddy. My only response was to scoop her up blanket and all, walk back out the door, hail a taxi, and be driven to the hospital.

A nurse tried to stop us from seeing John, but she was deemed irrelevant, brushed aside with the sight of a wedding ring and Alice's pleading eyes. I carried Alice to John's room where he was sleeping off the high dose of antivenin the hospital had given him. It had done its work, but...John remained unconscious.

"Papa..." came a whisper. I looked to our daughter. Her eyes were wet, but she had stopped crying. A quavering smile formed. "Oh." She reached up and kissed my neck, snuggling closer so to get under my coat. "Daddy did his best."

I sat down in one of the plastic chairs and waited. Alice fell asleep. I could not, just looking about the room almost unblinkingly. The only thing of interest was the rise and fall of John's chest and the steady beep, beep of the heart monitor. Alice's warmth-her own steady breath and heartbeat-was very welcome.

As the clock ticked by, I could feel myself growing cold again. Like during the absence. Everything was numb, disappearing. A tingling feeling pervaded throughout: just a jingle of fingertips, a dull slice of the wrist, a bent feeling of the knees, an twist of the gut, a feeling of dust settling on the face and shoulders. Soon that faded. Everything became a figment in a chair, a space of after thought, a nothing. A ghost.

Nothing was here anymore. Except Alice. Her solid weight and heat kept everything from floating away altogether.

Time meant nothing. The room's flickering bulbs lightened to signal daytime. Food was brought: meant for John, but he was asleep so Alice ate it. She kept mostly attached to what had been me, but it seemed not for her own sake. When the nurse left, Alice started talking. Her ideas and stories drifted out into the air like summer clouds, mostly unnoticed, but drops of water nonetheless. Just something to blow by the wind.

They were stories of school, stories of the park, stories of John. She held my hand as she said them despite the fact that the hand couldn't feel it.

Time passed. It meant nothing.

Then something happened. A sudden loud intake of breath from John's bed. The heart monitor beeped louder, faster. My eyes widened, examined, saw. John.

Blood pounded in my ears. I stood up and my head swam. I was so stiff, but I walked across the room and took his hand. I could feel it: his warm fingers giving life to mine, filling in the grooves and valleys of each fingerprint. He squeezed my hand and an electric shock zipped up my arm, up and down my spine until I could hear my brain revving back to life. John inhaled again and so did I. "Papa's back!" Alice delighted. She ran around us and climbed into bed, looking at him excitedly.

John's eyelids fluttered. "Sherlock?" he murmured. "Alice?"

"Papa!" she squealed. "Papa, Sherlock was very sad and didn't eat or drink anything. You must kiss him now so he starts living again."

He opened his eyes: God, _his eyes_. That blue flecked with brown: the most glorious brush strokes of all millennia. He looked at Alice and a smile formed. "Is that so?" He gave a weak chuckle.

"Don't laugh at me," I retorted, my voice a bit rusty. I had almost deleted what my voice sounded like: it hadn't mattered.

In an instant, I was in the bed beside John, trying to fit the side of my body to his and wrapping long limbs around him as much as I could to bind us together. It was so hot after all that coldness. I tucked my head under his chin, my nose in the hollow of his neck. He lifted a hand and stroked it through my curls, sending little sparks running around my skull, down my spine, into my chest. "Sherlock, you're freezing."

"No, no, Papa, you have to _kiss_ him. Like in the Sleeping Beauty story."

"But I was the sleeping one. Doesn't that mean he has wake me?"

"No, no. Daddy was practically_ dead_, Papa. Like, like, like a _zombie_. I had to talk you back or otherwise we'd all be stuck in the hospital tower forever."

John was tugging his hand away. "Doesn't that mean I have to kiss you?"

"Oh, stop this meaningless drivel!" I said, snatching John's hand back. "John, I forbid you to ever do this again." I lifted myself up and kissed him soundly on the lips. It tasted like lightening on bedsheets, embers on a cold night, lonely stars on fire. His mouth was cottony from sleep, but gloriously, magnificently _alive_. Everything was tinglingly with life, every last neuron seemed to be firing, feeling, my brain roaring in resurrection. And in the midst of it, my face was wet, something was slipping out of my eyes and falling onto John, but he didn't seem to mind.

The kiss ended and my body was wracking with dry sobs.

"God, Sherlock, you really know how to wake somebody up," John said.

I settled back down into my former position. "Do not mess in the affairs of dragons for you are crunchy and good with ketchup." For some inane reason, Alice's comparison of me to Smaug had popped into my head. My body was still buzzing, but calming into a more normal state, if an exhausted one.

Alice and John both laughed. "Have you been telling him about _The Hobbit_?"

"Yes, Papa! I..."

I stopped listening to their words, just appreciating the music of it, the thrum and beat and buzz. Traitorous tears fell silently for a few more minutes, but John's hand was back on my head so I hardly think he minded. After awhile I drifted off to sleep, still wrapped in the sounds and feelings of the ones I loved.

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><p><strong>Alice is a good little fangirl.<strong>

**Please review! =D**


	5. Epilogue: Vacate

**Earlyish update! Woot! Just a note of warning that if this gives off a different "feel" than the rest of the fic it's because I wrote it in the past 24 hours. Usually, I have the entire fiction done before I've even posted the first chapter (so then I can update regularly). So this was a rush job of when I suddenly realized yesterday I wanted an epilogue when I'd actually written the story like mid-July. Bit of a time gap. And it's John's POV so bit of a difference there...and a ginormous excuse to describe Sherlock so many times.**

**I'm a weird person with entirely too much sugar & Sherlock in the system...but enjoy!**

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><p>Epilogue: Vacate<p>

After I got out of the hospital, Sherlock and I waited for Alice's school term to end. The minute it did, we picked her up and all of us flew away. We only told Mycroft where we were going, just so he wouldn't start an international search for us.

But it was a well-deserved, very much needed holiday.

We ended up in Piombino, Italy, a small medieval town away from the hustle and bustle. Away from international conspiracies, away from the fog, away from London cabbies and their suicide pills, away from exploding pools, away from the cold, away from paved streets, away from waterfalls, away from rattlesnakes, away from everything familiar and all those associations. Just...away.

While the past few months had brought a significantly lower crime rate to England at large, there were also repercussions. Vallierie Moss and her slightly lesser cronies had been caught, but anybody else who had once been getting handsome checks for doing something illegal where now not. And who were the ones responsible? Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson.

Nothing clever or serious had happened, but we were constantly watching our backs. Sherlock tensed up again, wound himself up to be ever alert, ever watchful. Like a coiled snake or a circling hawk. Alice was weary too. She had gotten thinner, her cheeks a tad hollow. I would scold her for being too much like her father. But then she would shake her head and laugh and hug me to say everything was going to be alright: today was a good day.

It was me who had decided that we needed a vacation. Just a week over the Christmas holidays. A change of pace. It's not like our funds would suffer: Sherlock was being called on by kings, princes, squires, even the Pope! They had royal cases that paid royally. And had nothing to do whatsoever with the criminal underworld. More than half was tracking down lost gems or husbands or wives or scandalous photographs. So I booked a room at a farmhouse run by a squat lady that was like an Italian version of Mrs. Hudson (except for the fact that she actually _was_ our housekeeper). It was a nice painted place at which the insects sang at night and the stars shown by the thousand in the darkest blue sky.

It was also surprisingly not far from the seaside. Piombino occupied a neat little geographic cove where the warm Mediterranean waters lapped up bronze sand until the sand turned to rock up, up, and up to create a hillside where a castle overlooked everything. On the beach, thoroughly browned locals chatted in the rough and liquid Italian tongue while their pale cupid children ran about laughing. It was the off-season so not a whole lot of tourists were present: Sherlock wouldn't be overwhelmed.

Not that Sherlock was doing much of anything. We'd arrived at the beach today and he'd all but collapsed on the beach towel, mumbling something to me about setting up umbrellas so he wouldn't burn. I'd done so, and Alice was squirming around with delight, already wanting to go in the water and swim. "It has extra salt in it, Papa! You and Daddy might actually float!"

"Alright, alright," I answered, setting the last umbrella so as cover a patch of Sherlock's blazeningly white shoulder.

"Nooooo, John, don't go," Sherlock moaned into his folded arms. "I need suntan lotion."

Alice put her hands on her hips and glared as much as a nine year old in a lime green swimsuit and overlarge floppy sun hat could glare. "It's _my_ turn with Papa, Daddy. You can have him in two hours. You had him all night."

"That hardly counts because we were sleeping." Sherlock picked up his head to properly argue with her. Sand had already attached itself to his face, making him look about as threatening as a petulant puppy.

"Time is time is time, Daddy."

"If you two are quite done," I interrupted. "I would like to go swimming. Sherlock, put on your own lotion or wait for me to get back, but if you do that don't blame me if you get burned." I tried to sound stern, but a smile was working its way across my face nonetheless. "Come along, Alice, and leave your hat." As I took her hand, Sherlock mumbled something about not letting me read poetry to Alice anymore and settled back to tanning. I chuckled. I could feel him unwinding, slowly acknowledging that everything was alright, _we_ were alright.

Another day we decided to explore the castle, which seemed to grow out of the cliff face. Alice was slowly nursing a new addiction to raspberry gelato and holding Sherlock's hand as we strolled the cobbled alleys that led up to it. He had burned a little in the sun, his face a bit pink, but that only served to accent his strange blue eyes, young-looking face, and windswept chocolate hair. We climbed to the very tallest tower, twisting round and round up the sand-colored staircase until we reached the top. We looked down at the beach where we had been, the curve of the land against the blue-green of the sea. The wind seemed to buffet the nation of umbrellas below before rising up to us to bring a tang of salt to the air. It smelled so good.

"John," said Sherlock. I looked up at him from where I was leaning on the rail. With his free hand, Sherlock tugged me up by the shirt collar into a soft kiss.

I could tell Alice was running around us since the call of "Kisses! Kisses!" kept circling about. She then hugged Sherlock's waist sideways, saying, "Don't you ever get tired of always doing that when it's your turn with Papa?"

About mid-week I was trying to find a restaurant recommended to us. I was turning about crude pencil map that had been hastily drawn on a napkin when Sherlock had suddenly stopped walking, causing me to run almost right into him. "Sherlock, I think we're lost-"

"John," he said, "Criminals!"

I nearly dropped the map, but followed his gaze to across the street where two men were walking quickly around the corner. They looked younger with matching black sweatshirts and jeans. One glanced behind at us before continuing. "Sherlock, they look fine and Alice-"

"Up!" Alice shouted. Sherlock scooped her up and the pair started racing after the suspicious strangers who had noticed the pursuit by running themselves. "Wheeee! Daddy goes so fast! Hurry up, Papa!"

"They're going to rob a bank, John! Look at their pockets!"

"Come back with our daughter, Sherlock!" I raced after them down an alley, the familiar adrenaline coursing through my veins. The street twisted radically and then forked, one way leading to a big "National Bank" and the other I was yanked down by a familiar white hand.

"You got your mobile, John?" Sherlock's eyes were alight and Alice's matched, a big smile on her face. Oh god. Sherlock was panting a bit from the run, not used to Alice's weight.

"Sherlock, what part of 'Alice is not to go to any crime scenes' _do you not understand_?"

He looked taken aback for a second, and Alice's smile wavered. "We're just going to call the police, Papa," she said, placatingly.

Sherlock added, "And technically it's not a crime scene until one, two, three...now."

I heard a shout from the other alleyway's fork, and it sounded suspiciously like the Italian version of "Everybody get the fuck down and give me your money or I'll shoot."

"Oh..." I said, feeling relieved. "That's fine."

"Now your mobile, so we can call the police and I think I found your restaurant. Passed it on the way." I handed it to him and in seconds Sherlock was emitting clipped Italian into the phone. He shut it and handed it back. "The crime was a bit of an early Christmas present, don't you think?" He smiled at me.

I laughed, and Alice got down to take my hand and lead me out. "May I have more raspberry gelato after dinner?"

"Only if you eat your vegetables," said Sherlock, sweeping out of the alley after us. I heard later that the police arrived minutes after we'd telephoned. They caught the two men, the money was returned to its proper owners, and nobody died. Alice ate her vegetables.

By the sixth night, Sherlock had had enough sleep. And by enough sleep I mean, the normal amount needed by a normal person, which was too much for him. So I was not surprised when I fell asleep wrapped in him, but woke up around 6am alone. I sat up groggily, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. Alice was still snoozing on her cot on the other end of the room, swathed in a mound of blankets. Her teddy bear's head was just poking out, but her own head was completely under all the cloth.

Sherlock was nowhere to be seen: the place was one spacious room with a kitchen, dining area, and beds so there weren't that many places to hide unless he'd cramped his lengthy self in the minuscule bathroom. Unlikely. Must be outside. I quietly got up and stretched a bit, waving arms about for the purpose of waking up and relieving the muscles. I grabbed our blanket and headed out.

I found him sitting on a barrel of hay next to the field that had already been laid out for next year's planting. He was facing east, where the sky was just lighting up with a yellow dawn and the rest of the sky a kind of purple with spots of silver for stars. He was staring off into nothing, his eyes a light grey and his mop of curls falling all over the place (he'd need a trim soon). His long pale limbs were stretched out, arms behind and legs in front as if in a gesture to let the day wash over him and perhaps forget him entirely. But I never could. Not ever.

"How long have you been here?" I asked.

Sherlock made no sign that he was surprised by my presence, but just answered, "For a bit."

That could mean hours. I sighed a little and replied, "Well, move over." He scooted to the side, and I took the offered room. I threw the blanket around both our shoulders and leaned against him. He was chilled from the morning air. "What have you been doing?"

"Thinking."

"About?"

"Nothing worth a mention."

I turned my face to lightly kiss his shoulder before saying, "Are you worried?"

Sherlock just hummed in response, still looking at the horizon that was slowly turning a nice butter mellow. "I'm fine," I said. "You're fine. Alice is fine. It's all fine. No Moriarty, no mob: God, you're going to be bored."

Sherlock chuckled, "I still have my greatest case."

"What's that?"

"You, my dear Watson."

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><p><strong>Credits:<strong>

**THANK YOU SO MUCH TO ALL ALERTERS, REVIEWERS, AND FAVORITORS: ****Mrs. VanchaMarch, NicolieTheFace, sneakysnakes, MysticValkyrie, itsravensfault, Scribblez, annabelleaurelius, SimpGirl87, imfromjupiter, & maggiecon**

**Story very, very, very loosely based on the ACD story "Adventure of the Naval Treaty," the crackiest, weirdest canon story I've ever read. And by loosely based I mean, there was a treaty & a nervous man named Percy Phelps. That is all.**

**The "It" of the title refers to the end of Sherlock's cases dealing with organized crime establishments aka the mob & Moriarty.**

**Love you all! =D**


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